


The Epistles

by AnnaFan



Series: The Silk Road [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 11,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: What happened between the kiss on the walls and the troth plighting in Edoras? And why did the dressmakers have to take such care over the cut of Éowyn's wedding dress? The answer lies in a series of letters and diary entries. Part of my "Silk Road Series", sequel to Dear Diary.
Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: The Silk Road [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/566350
Comments: 78
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Letter: Elfhelm, Marshal of the Mark, to Lady Hilde, his wife**

Well, here's a turn up for the books, my dear.

I know you got my last letter – I mentioned how sad Lady Éowyn seemed. Your reply got here – you told me to keep a close eye on her. Well, I think we can safely say the danger of her getting too low in spirits has passed. Yesterday I set off to see her in the houses of healing – but I didn't get all the way there. As I came up the lane towards where the houses abut the wall of that circle of the city, I heard lots of cheering and clapping, and not a few wolf-whistles. I rounded the corner to see, high on the walls in full view of everyone in the streets below, the Lady Éowyn being kissed – and a right proper kiss it was too – by the new young Steward of Gondor!

If I caught a lad kissing one of our lasses that way, I'd tan his hide with the flat of my sword till his arse was black and blue.

And I'll tell you something else: if one of our lasses was to kiss back the way Éowyn was kissing that bloke, I'd make damn sure he married her quick. Because it's only a matter of time before a kiss like that turns into her having a bun in the oven.

I wonder what Éomer King will make of it when he hears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Éowyn's Diary**

Quiet (and quietly confident) competence. Yes, it turns out I am deeply attracted by quiet competence. I have been helping Faramir by checking through the accounts for the rebuilding. Though I have probably got through half the number of pages I should have done today, largely through watching Faramir when he is concentrating (and therefore doesn't notice me looking at him). 

He has this trick of absent-mindedly tapping the feathered end of his quill against his lips as he thinks. (They are such beautiful lips, and kiss so beautifully too.) It is also a warm day, so he has unclasped his tunic, and pushed the sleeves up. I am more than a little taken with the sight of his forearms. The way the sinews play beneath his skin as he writes. The fine dark hairs contrasting with his skin. The old scar that runs down to his left wrist, silvery white against the tan of a man who takes a lot of exercise outside.

Is it very wrong of me to wish he would untie the lacings at the neck of his shirt? I find myself wondering whether there is dark hair across his chest as well, and how much. 

It is definitely wrong of me to be so pleased that he has shed his tunic, given the room is warm. When he gets up to fetch another tome of law, or scroll of plans of the city, I get an admirable view of his arse as he stretches over the table to reach the book cases. It is an exceptionally nice arse. (Every time he embraces me, I fight a battle to keep my hands above waist height and avoid the temptation to clasp that arse. I think – from the way his hands start to slide down over my hips, then move sharply back up to my waist – that he is having the same struggle.)

It's funny to think that only a week or so ago, I was beset by the most terrible confusion – had I agreed to marry him for the wrong reasons? Was I simply seeking someone kind and gentle as an escape from going back to the Mark to play maiden aunt to the future heirs my brother will eventually provide (or, whisper it, to forget about a girlish crush)? But the more time I spend with him, the less I worry. For in addition to the fact that he is kind and gentle, as well as intelligent and indisputably brave… I can add the fact that, were it not for his gentlemanly behaviour and my vague recollection that I am meant to behave myself “as befits a lady of quality” (or whatever the Gondorian phrase is), I'd leap into his bed on the spot. In fact, I'm not sure I'd get as far as the bed. He could have me on the rug of his study if he wanted. Or on his desk with my skirts hoiked around my waist. Or against the wall.

I may be letting myself spend too much time thinking about this.

I must make sure no-one ever reads this diary.


	3. Chapter 3

**Faramir's Diary**

Buggeration. I've made an idiot of myself again. And embarrassed myself. And Éowyn. Though she says she isn't. Embarrassed, that is.

Yesterday was phenomenally busy. Thank the Valar for Éowyn and her Haradrim counting frame (she found it in the market in the second circle, a spoil of war, I suppose – it's an admirably quick way of doing arithmetic – but I digress). She set to on the accounts while I tackled a stack of legal paperwork. We worked so late the sun was growing low in the sky when we had a light supper in my study, then (foolishly) we snuggled up on the day bed. Nothing untoward happened, nor did I intend for it to (however much I might be tempted). I am determined to behave honourably. So we kissed but nothing more. Admittedly we kissed rather a lot. But then we fell asleep.

At some point in the evening, someone (Beregond? How am I to broach that subject?) came in and seeing us asleep on the couch, covered us with a fur-trimmed coverlet. Which I suppose explains how we both slept so soundly. Without nightmares, praise Este! Or perhaps praise each other's blessed company. The sound of Éowyn's breathing, the faint beat of her heart, her warmth and softness in my arms – all these things seem to keep the horrors at bay.

Anyway, I woke the next morning as the sunlight crept into the room. And realised that I had a bad case of… well, the thing that gave the great Elven lover Taurwar, of ancient (and somewhat dubious) lore, his name. At first it was only half-way there, at ease as it were, to borrow a military metaphor, but then Éowyn shifted in my arms, and suddenly my soldier snapped to attention as if on a parade ground!

Then, to make matters worse, Éowyn woke, and kissed me. She lay happily in my arms, blissfully unaware of the military manoeuvres taking place in my small-clothes. So there I lay, a beautiful, desirable woman in my arms (and effectively in my bed, though we were both still clothed), attempting to converse with her (for Éowyn it appears is a morning person and will happily chatter in the first light of dawn). I did my best. I tried very hard to concentrate on her words and ignore the blood thundering in – well, where it was thundering.

Then she shifted slightly, and, oh sainted Valar. Her leg brushed where I was desperately hoping it would not, her eyes opened wide and she simply stared at me.

And then my wretched mouth started to prattle on without a hint of waiting for my higher faculties to catch up with it.

First I assured her this was just one of those things, that it happens to men, and often signifies no more than that we need to retrieve the chamber pot from beneath the bed. Not surprisingly, she frowned at this. Realising that this was hardly flattering, I hastened to assure her that I did indeed find her desirable, and that this no doubt played no small part in the current state of affairs. In fact (as the frown showed no sign of abating) a larger part in proceedings than the state of my bladder. And that she really was delightfully desirable. At this she coloured slightly (which made me want to kiss her, and did not help my ongoing struggle in the slightest). What small part was left of my rational faculties now panicked completely. I intended her no dishonour, I added hastily, and would not dream of importuning her. At this point she started to laugh, and in fact laughed so hard that she fell out of the rather narrow bed.

Unfortunately with both of us tangled in the fur coverlet, she took me with her. Which meant that I landed more or less on top of her. (I did at least manage to twist in the process of falling so I spared her my full weight). We came to rest in an arrangement of limbs which one might, diplomatically, describe as somewhat indecorous. In fact, thoroughly improper might be a more accurate summation.

I shot out from under the covers with such haste one would have thought the hounds of Angband were at my heels. And Éowyn laughed even harder. And said she did not mind in the slightest. And was not at all offended. Then added that she supposed she had best leave so that she could see if she could sneak back into the Houses of Healing without being seen.

Then as she ventured out through the door, she cast one last look over her shoulder, grinned impishly, and said “You do realise, don't you, that you have exactly the same effect on me? It is simply that it is not as immediately obvious in a woman.” And with that facer, she sailed off into the morning sun leaving me completely stunned. And with Lieutenant Taurwar standing even more imposingly tall than before.

Oh buggeration. Again. I have just given my male member a name. I shall have to burn this diary. And possibly flee to far Harad, there to start a new life as an anonymous soldier of fortune.

~o~O~o~

_AN: Taurwar (morning wood in Sindarin) is the genius creation of Queef Queen._


	4. Chapter 4

**Éowyn's Diary**

So Faramir is “not going to importune” me. Dammit.

And “wouldn't dream of dishonouring” me. More's the pity. I on the other hand would dream of it… and do. Frequently. And vividly.

In any case, I am ripe for dishonouring. “Honour” is a damned nuisance if you ask me. Nothing but a vulnerability. And I am four and twenty, for the love of the Harvest Mother. It's an embarrassment to be a maid still at this age. (And when I think of the threat that hung over my head in Edoras, often worse than an embarrassment.)

Faramir is welcome to my honour. He can have it. I can't think of a worthier recipient. Or one on whom I would more joyfully bestow it.

I am picturing marching up to him in his study (my dress already strategically unlaced) and letting my garments fall to the ground. Then saying, “Here, take it, it's yours.”

Still, the whole ridiculous business has made me laugh. The way he talked such nonsense, without pausing for breath, as if he couldn't stop himself, and dug a deeper and deeper hole.

And the way we both fell off the bed.

But, oh my! When he landed on top of me – between my outstretched legs in fact. I could search around for delicate euphemisms to describe the sensations I felt. But I don't think I'll bother. Plain words will do fine.

His pintel was rock hard, and pressed against my wem, with only a thin layer of cloth in between. Béma and his wild hunt take me. I may be inexperienced, but unless I miss my guess, that's a damn fine pintel. And I want to feel much, much more of it, without the intervening layers of cloth. 

But there's something else about last night, aside from how lovely his pintel felt. I have been trying to remember when I last slept so soundly. When I last felt so safe, and protected, and warm, and able to sleep without twitching at every noise, without being haunted by nightmares. 

The nightmares are of course worse now than they were, because of the Pelennor. But even before then – wargs, orcs, Wormtongue, visions of my parents snatched away from me, illusions that my brother would also be snatched – these were my constant night-time companions.

Have I ever enjoyed such a night? It must be so, so many years ago that the memories are hazy. Perhaps while my parents were still alive I slept thus.

So, yes, I want him to importune me (at his earliest opportunity) and dishonour me (most thoroughly and enjoyably). But equally I want to sleep held safe and warm in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Political Memoir of Lord Úron**

Well, this evening was nothing if not dashed awkward. 

But first let me set the scene. There is an important hearing tomorrow. Now there's an understatement. The most important hearing in several millenia. To go through all of the legal arguments around the resumption of the Kingship. It is to be held in full council – no less than four and twenty nobles (including Lord Castamir, leader of the faction opposed to the resumption). The Steward will present the case in favour, and Lord Hurin will preside as judge, though the actual decision will be by vote. Lord Faramir could of course overrule them if the vote went against us; there is legal precedent for it (constitutionally, that's pretty much what is meant by “Ruling Steward,” after all). But such a show of force majeure would run the risk of being counterproductive, possibly even bringing Gondor (weakened by war) to the brink of civil war. I'm not sure if Castamir is yet in a position of sufficient strength to do anything (his son-in-law has considerable forces at his disposal, but for obvious reasons they are currently scattered between Cormallen and protecting the banks of Anduin in Anorien). Whether he is in a position to act or not, I wouldn't want to chance it. 

In fact part of Lord Faramir's haste in pressing for an early council meeting is to get the matter discussed before the balance of power can be tipped by Castamir's faction recalling troops to Minas Tirith (presumably under cover of restoring order – the near riots in the outer circles a few weeks ago, though admirably controlled by the Steward, have now been re-invented and broadcast by some of Castamir's followers as much more widespread and serious than they in fact were, the better to justify such a recall of troops). Thus Faramir wants to establish the constitutional and procedural steps for considering Lord Aragorn's claim to the throne sooner rather than later – hence our haste in preparing our case, and the fact that we had to work late into the night.

And so to the awkwardness… The Steward and his Lady Wraithsbane cannot keep their eyes off one another. In fact, I suspect that had it not been for my presence, they would not have been able to keep their hands off one another. Their desire is near palpable, and excruciatingly embarrassing for a third party (namely, me). And (in a slightly detached way) somewhat surprising to me; I had always assumed lust to be a primarily male emotion, which high born gentlemen who were drawn to the fairer sex were at pains to conceal from their lady-loves – at least from those of their lady-loves who were genteelly bred. It appears my assumptions were wrong.

In any case, despite the distractions, we finished the preparations. In fact, Lady Éowyn's presence turned out to be something of a blessing, because in being forced to explain our arguments in straightforward language to one not steeped in our history, we were able to see more clearly which of our trains of thought were germane to the point and which were mere tangents, and thus to sharpen our presentation of the case considerably. (Admittedly the tangents also have to be well prepared, to deal with supplementary questions; one has to be thoroughly on top of a brief – it's just not always best to present every single one of the minutiae from the outset.)

It was with visible reluctance that the Steward set forth from the palace to walk his lady love back to her billet in the Houses of Healing. By way of an aside I don't think he realises that it was I who covered the pair of them as they slept upon the day bed last night; I suppose propriety dictated that I should have woken the pair of them up, but propriety be buggered, they looked so comfortable. And in truth, in my life to date, propriety has been buggered so many times, it is hardly of any note to add one more occasion, even if merely metaphorical, to the tally. Moreover, part of me wonders whether, were they to throw propriety to the winds, they might get all this out of their systems and concentrate better on the tasks in hand during daylight hours.


	6. Chapter 6

**Faramir's Diary**

We carried the day, thank the Valar. A narrower majority than I had perhaps hoped at my most optimistic, but still convincing enough – fifteen to nine. I shall have to watch those nine carefully. (Nine seems a very inauspicious number… though my Lady is on hand in extremis, should their ring leader need to be dealt with). 

Afterwards, I met with Éowyn in the garden of the palace here, and lifted her in my arms and whirled her round in circles until we were both dizzy, and fell, laughing, to the turf beneath the almond tree. And there she took my hands in hers, and fixed me with a most serious expression, and spoke.

She had given a lot of thought, she told me, to the night upon the couch together. It was the first night she had been free of nightmares since waking from the troubled sleep of the Black Breath. (I confessed to her at this point that it was also so for me). And she said, in very measured, controlled tones (which rather belied the content of what she said) that, having both damn near died upon that battlefield, she had come to the conclusion that life was to be seized, each and every moment, and lived to the full. I loved her, she loved me, and it was clear to her, she said, that we both desired one another, soul and body (oh, the look in her eyes as she said this). Therefore she had decided that she was not going to return to the Houses of Healing, this night, or any that followed, but rather to stay with me, to share my bed and my life. For what point was there waiting for marriage, which was in any case nothing more than an arbitrary ceremony, when we had already given our hearts to one another?

Then she rose to her feet, dusted down her skirts, and offered her hand to me. Gladly I took it, and I led her up the stairs to my bed chamber. And there I shall pause my account, beyond recording that it was the most blissful night of my whole life, and that I am the happiest man that ever lived.


	7. Chapter 7

Éowyn's Diary.

This is the point at which I think I have realised this diary will definitely have to be burned.

So many discoveries last night.

He does have dark hair on his chest – lovely dark hair. Not too much, not too sparse. Just right.

The mysterious way it turns out my breasts appear to have a magic connection directly to my groin – him stroking them, kissing them, licking them sends flashes of fire between my legs.

And his arse is indeed lovely, even through his breeches. Even better when naked, especially when his hips are nestled between my thighs.

And as for… Well, I could never have guessed that the skin there would be so soft, so velvety, yet stretched over something so hard.

Oh, and that hardness. The feeling of being filled, of wrapping myself around him.

And the strangest of little details, like the brush of his balls against my buttocks when he's buried to the hilt. 

The noises – they were a bit embarrassing to start with. Skin against skin. But soon those noises were drowned out by our breathing coming in gasps.

And that feeling, of ever growing need, climbing and climbing, and then shattering into pieces, taking me with it, leaving me completely limp but more blissful than I have ever felt in my life.

Then sleeping wrapped around one another, completely safe and at peace, cocooned from the world. 

Waking in the night and realising the need for one another was still there… and again in the grey half light before dawn, when I discovered I could straddle his hips as he lay upon the bed, and ride him. And – like a spirited horse – he would buck beneath me. And that riding him allowed his hands free access to my body – my breasts, my hips, my pearl. Oh, that clever thing he can do with his thumb while his fingers are splayed across my hips, holding me tight!

And the knowledge that this will be every night (until my brother returns, at any rate). Then every night for the rest of our lives once we are married.


	8. Chapter 8

**Lady Hilde to Marshal Elfhelm**

How best to keep an eye on things? 

Play it canny, dear husband. Don't tell her to mind her honour or anything like that. If I know the Lady Éowyn, that will just make her mulishly stubborn (and by Béma's horn, we both know how mulish she can be).

Play the politics card. She is King Éomer's heir, until such time as he gets married and produces children. So it is her duty to the Mark to allow you to take whatever measures are needed to keep her safe. Assign a body guard (or two) to her, to make sure she returns safely to her lodgings. She may realised that the real aim is to ensure she is chaperoned, but if she can't prove it, you should be able to manoeuvre it so that she can't object.

How much longer will the king dally at Cormallen? His presence would surely be the most effective strategy of all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Faramir to Princess Celebeth, wife of Prince Elphir of Dol Amrothos**

How do you fair, cos, in the run up to your confinement? I hope all is well, and that Alphros is excited at the prospect of a little brother or sister.

I have a favour to ask of you, though I am not sure how best to approach the matter, as you may not approve (and it may entail a certain element of subterfuge)

**Celebeth to Faramir**

Of course Lady Éowyn will be most welcome as our house guest, albeit in absentia. And rest assured that I have in mind a most admirably discreet housemaid to tend to her room, who will be entirely relieved to have one less bed to make in the mornings. (And how could I possibly disapprove? After all, I remember the time you covered for Elphir and me when we were courting. In fact I remember it very vividly. The mere thought is making me blush. And I am most happy to return the favour.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Elfhelm to Hilde**

No point locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Code of Ecthelion: Laws concerning Inheritance and Intestacy, Volume III: scribbled marginal note on folio 203.**

Please hurry home and importune me at your earliest convenience. I am also open to suggestions, both familiar and inventive, as to how best you can continue to dishonour me.

(PS I am not wearing small-clothes.)

(PPS. I hope you are handy with a pumice stone, to remove this marginal note!)

**Note tucked within a treatise on cavalry warfare**

Alas, the servants tell me you have gone to visit Imrahil's stable master. 

And I had at least half a candle's worth of time between cases. Still, this book was sitting on the table, so I have hopes you will find the note, and if you do not, I can always retrieve it and read it to you later tonight.

I had hoped I would find you home. Not enough time to retire to bed, but I could have at least unlaced your gown and kissed your beautiful breasts and caressed your rose-coloured nipples till they stiffened beneath my ministrations. And slid my hand up the silken skin of your thigh beneath your skirts, there to run my fingertips over your pearl. Then (and I am hard just thinking of this) you would unlace my breeches, and I could sit you on the edge of the desk and bury myself all the way within your welcoming heat, and thrust home until we both spent ourselves.

Then I could return to the courtroom, a trifle flushed, and in a visibly good humour, dispense merciful judgements in all my cases, whether the defendants were deserving or not, and Úron would just give me one of those looks that he is so good at.

But instead I shall have to make do with fair Mistress Palmer and her five friends, while imagining it to be your hand rather than my own. (After all, I would disgrace myself utterly were I to walk into the courtroom in my current state.) Do not fear, though, that this activity means I will not be able to rise to the occasion tonight – I view it more as an instance of “practice makes perfect”. And in any case, since you are already perfect, I merely strive to match you.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Political Memoir of Lord Úron**

I am but recently returned from Cormallen, and find myself unexpectedly a fiancé. 

This change in my circumstances led the Lady Éowyn to take me to task most severely. She said that it was completely unreasonable of me to take a woman to wife if I had no desire to satisfy her in the bedchamber. (From this I conclude that she now considers herself to be an expert on these matters.)

I did explain to the Lady Éowyn that my wife-to-be and I had a mutually beneficial arrangement built on friendship and the need to establish (or in my lady's case, to repair) our reputations, and that we had agreed that each of us should have the freedom to find whatever companionship we desired for our respective bed chambers. Lady Éowyn seemed to think this a most bizarre arrangement. I however suspect it is rather more common in Minas Tirith than she realises.

Though obviously this is her chosen path in life. It seems that in the few days I was away, matters have advanced to the stage where the Steward and his lady are now openly (if discreetly) living as man and wife.

I regret to report (as one who has to spend most of his days cooped up in the same room as the two of them) that contrary to my earlier expressed wishes, it would appear that this change in their arrangements has not got it (by which I mean that palpable air of lust which emanates from the pair of them) out of their system.


	13. Chapter 13

**Note tucked inside The Code of Ecthelion: Laws concerning High Treason, Cowardice in the Face of the Enemy and Desertion**

Dearest love, I know how much you hate sitting in judgement on capital cases. But I know and trust you my love, and I know that you will temper justice with mercy where possible, and commute death sentences where you feel there is the slightest chance of reform, saving the death penalty only for those deeds foul beyond hope of redemption.

I shall be there in spirit with you, and will be there to comfort you and hold you tight through the dark watches of the night.

**Note tucked inside Barahir’s Treatise on the Healing Arts: Chapter VII On the preparation of herbal pastes and poultices and correct surgical techniques for the debridement of infected flesh.**

I happened upon the Warden of the Houses yesterday evening. He told me you were accompanying the chief surgeon on his rounds today, and that first on the list was the ward containing those men recently brought back from the Black Gates whose wounds were not healing correctly.

I know from watching our company’s barber-surgeon at work in Henneth Annun or in the field just how gruesome this work can be. It is horribly painful for the patient, awful for the onlooker and a trial of the surgeon’s nerve and ability to suppress his fellow feeling for the patient’s agony while he works.

I know you will not shirk from the task, but rest assured I shall have the servants prepare a hot bath ready for your return, a light supper, and (for it has been chill and rainy these past few days) make sure our bed has been warmed with a pan of hot embers. I shall even scrub your back – gladly for indeed you have a most beautiful back. (Fear not, I shall not importune you beyond this – unless of course you want to be importuned, in which case I am, as ever, at your disposal.)

With all my love, my dear heart.

~o~O~o

_Thanks for all the good wishes re. my broken laptop._


	14. Chapter 14

_AN: Chapter 13 has been edited so it now contains actual text rather than the announcement about my sadly deceased laptop!_

~o~O~o

**Hilde to Elfhelm**

Dear husband,

I know you will not like this, for I know you do not like to talk about “women’s business.” So think instead about it as being a political necessity.

Every candle mark, Lady Éowyn needs to drink one of the following (in turn): raspberry leaf tea; rue infusion; penny royal tea. Repeat as necessary.

I know you will find having to talk to her about this matter embarrassing. But think how much more embarrassing the alternative is – that the king’s sister got herself up the duff while you were the most senior lord of the king’s council on hand to supposedly chaperone her.

You pride yourself on being man enough to ride a war stallion – well, time to show that spirit now. It can’t be harder than leading the charge onto the Pelennor. Well, not much harder.


	15. Chapter 15

**Note tucked inside a folio of legal papers**

That thing that you did with your tongue last night? Hurry home at luncheon and do it again.

**Note on pillow**

I had hoped to wake you early and importune you! But you look so peaceful sleeping there, with your golden hair spread around you, that it seems a shame to wake you. And besides, it was my fault keeping you awake so long last night.

But, by Tulkas, it was worth it. The sight of you astride me, your cheeks flushed, the look on your face as your pleasure broke like a wave on a beach.

I shall hurry home tonight and see if I can evoke the same response. I long to run my fingers through your silken hair, to unlace your gown and see it fall to the floor, to run my hands over your curves, to taste your skin, to bury myself within your welcoming warmth. 

My love, my heart, my everything.


	16. Chapter 16

**Elfhelm to Hilde**

By the time your note arrived, Éomer King had also returned and I did not get a chance to talk to Lady Éowyn alone. We are setting off for Edoras tomorrow, so I don’t suppose I shall get a chance now (unless I go to the houses of healing and ask the herbalist – but then he will ask awkward questions).

So we must hope to luck. And pray that the Sacred Mother of the Harvest was busy giving her gifts of fertility elsewhere.


	17. Chapter 17

**List left on pillow**

Things I will miss.

Your smile.

The way you make me laugh.

Your quick wits.

Your even quicker tongue (you may take that however you want).

(As I intend to next time opportunity presents.)

Your arse.

Your arms about me.

Your warmth in the night. (And your heat in the night.)

Your kindness.

Your gentleness.

Your dark hair spread across the pillow.

Your concern for other people.

Your strong arms (I think I mentioned those).

Your arse (I definitely mentioned this, but it is worth mentioning many times).

Your pintel.

What you can do with your pintel.

The sounds you make.

The way you fuck me.

The way you love me. And the way I love you.

It will be a long few months.

Your É


	18. Chapter 18

**Faramir to Eowyn**

How I miss you my dearest, dearest love.

I found your list, and it warmed my heart (and other parts too). I make do as best I can, imagining my hand is yours wrapped around me – but it is not the same. I long for you.

I fear I may have let the cat out of the bag. I found myself in the most boring meeting it has ever been my misfortune to attend (and may the Valar save me, I had plenty of experience of boring meetings during my father’s rule). So I took to doodling in the margins of my notes – folds of that silk from Harad in which you draped yourself a few weeks ago – translucent, but not quite transparent, sending my imagination rioting until I could run my hands over your curves, the silk smooth and warm beneath my fingers, almost as smooth and warm as the skin beneath. Then I started to write a stanza of one of Mardil’s poems in the margin too.

And it was at this point that the King glanced over and caught me. Now it was not so much what I did write: _Whenas in silks my lady goes, then then, methinks, how sweetly flows, the liquefaction of her clothes_. It was the fact that from the way he raised his eyebrow quizzically, I fear the King may know the next stanza too, the one I didn’t write down. _Next when I cast mine eye and see, that brave vibration each way free, oh, how that glittering taketh me_.

For you do, you know. Glitter. Your skin in the moonlight, as you sit astride my thighs, proud daughter of the Mark, riding me to exhaustion and beyond. And the vibration – those glorious, beauteous breasts of yours, perfect globes, celestial spheres, but so soft, so yielding beneath my palms, so sweet-tasting within my mouth. Moving along with you as you sink down on me, then withdraw, then sink once more, your pace quickening, your silken, liquid walls tightening round me. The way I cannot help myself, my hips move of their own volition, the better to thrust myself balls deep within you. And the sigh of desire you make when my thumb brushes your pearl, the way your lids droop as you are overcome by your need, that keening sound, half cry, half gasp, as you reach your peak. The way that sound alone undoes me, even more than the sight of your beauty, bare above me, even more than the grip of your sweet body around my pintel. Such that I cannot help but spend myself, completely and utterly.

That, that, was the image that flashed across my mind’s eye all of an instant as the King looked at me.

And, Morgoth be damned, I wonder if he too has the sight of Numenor, the ability to read men’s hearts from their faces.

He and my uncle collared me in the garden later, and informed me they proposed to write to your brother and have us married when we come to Edoras in the Autumn to pay our respects to Théoden King.

I pray to Elbereth, to Nienna, to Este, that your brother agrees.

For I love you more than life itself.

My heart, my soul, my all.

Your Faramir

~o~O~o~

_AN: the poem is stolen from Robert Herrick._


	19. Chapter 19

**Lady Hilde to Marshal Elfhelm**

How prophetic your first letter from the Mundburg has proved to be, and not in a good way.

This morning I went to rouse the Lady Éowyn, for she was late abed, only to find her green as the grass of the Eastemnet, kneeling over the chamber pot, throwing up.

I told you you should have seen the herbalist in the Mundberg before you rode back.

And Éomer King will be beside himself with rage.

Ride back as soon as you can – the orcs can wait.

Your wife, Hilde


	20. Chapter 20

**Éowyn to Faramir**

My dearest love,

There is no other way to tell you this than to be blunt and let you know of my predicament: I am with child.

I have now realised there is something worse than riding a long distance with sodden rags pressed between my thighs, and that is riding that same distance knowing those rags should be there, but that there is no need for them. It is now over a se’en-night since my moonflow should have come upon me.

Lady Hilde, Marshal Elfhelm’s wife, entered my chambers yesterday, and caught me in a moment of sickness. Shrewd as ever, she immediately guessed the cause. She gave me a dressing down worthy of a mother to her daughter (she has two girls only about ten years younger than I, so feels these risks acutely, I think). But then she was very kind, and made me an infusion of ginger (which she prepared herself in the kitchen without telling the cook – she is being very discreet, but I fear it is only a matter of time before my condition becomes apparent.)

I must tell my brother, something I am not looking forward to. He will be furious. I just hope he still lets you marry me. Though I suppose he has no choice – it is that or outright scandal.

I miss you so dreadfully. And find myself unaccountably tearful. (I never cry – I find myself quite embarrased by this. I presume this is something to do with the effects of being with child.) And also sick, and tired beyond what I knew was possible (and I have ridden a forced march from here to the Mundburg, so I am well acquainted with tiredness).

Oh my love, I wish you were here so I could weather the coming storm with you by my side.

And I wish I could see your face when I told you of this – will you be happy, or will you be worried, or will you be shocked that we shall outrage your society so? I hope you will be happy, and that my worries, like my tears, are just an unfortunate consequence of my present condition.

Yours, with all my love, 

Éowyn


	21. Chapter 21

**Faramir to Éowyn**

Oh my love, my beloved, my dearest one, my brave, glittering Éowyn,

I do not think I can find the words to express my joy at the news that you are with child. We will have a child together. I am the happiest man alive.

My only source of misgiving is that I am not by your side to comfort you and support you. Should I ride to Edoras in place of this messenger, to deliver this by hand and stand with you while you tell your brother? I know you fear he will be angry, but he loves you, and I believe him to be a reasonable man, even if he may be angry to start with. The fault is entirely mine; make sure he knows this. In fact, I shall enclose a separate note for you to forward to him, to this effect (the decision is yours my love as to whether you do forward it, but I do not want him to think that you are to blame).

I must go to see my King and Liege-Lord to get him to press for our marriage to happen as soon as possible. That will be an interesting conversation (for all I suspect that it will not come as a surprise to him).

But oh, my love, how I wish I could be with you. I worry about your health – it is not good that you are so under the weather. I hope Lady Hilde’s ginger infusions help. And I worry that you are worried, and have to face the coming storm alone.

But be assured that the first emotion you would have seen on my face, had you been here to deliver the news in person, would have been pure, unalloyed joy.

I love you my dear heart, and I already love the child that grows within you.

With all my love and care,  
Your Faramir


	22. Chapter 22

**Éowyn to Faramir**

Faramir, my dearest love, and “Right Randy Shagger” (as I shall have to call you from now on – but more on that in a moment),

You’ll be glad to know I took Lady Hilde with me! And it turned out Elfhelm was there (I suspect Hilde had dragged him back as soon as she could get word to him, in case someone needed to sit on my brother if he got out of hand).

My brother was indeed furious. I had to put up with quite some considerable time of him stomping up and down yelling about “dishonour” and “had trusted me” and “how could you?” and “how could he?” and “the bastard’s a complete cad.” He even said something completely bone-headed about stallions and mares getting out and stud fees (of all bloody things) and foals (which caused Hilde to threaten to box his ears for being so unflattering)! Then he made various references to running you through with a sword – all of which made me glad you had not been on hand to run the risk of him actually carrying through with this in the heat of the moment.

I’m afraid I lost my temper in return – told him I was four and twenty, that my honour was my own to dispose of as I saw fit, that you were a worthy man, and in any case I had invited myself into your bed (at this point Éomer exploded about “slappers” and Elfhelm had to hold onto Hilde who really was going to box his ears, king or not, then he muttered something to the effect of “yeah, but nah, but yeah, the Gondy bastard didn’t have to say yes, did he?”). When he got to the nonsense about running you through, I yelled back at him that he’d have to go through me first, and I’d killed the fucking Witch King of Angmar, so he’d better watch his step (yes I did swear at the King of the Riddermark! But he is my brother, so it’s hardly the first time).

At which point Hilde said we had best keep our voices down, because what with him yelling and me shrieking like a banshee (I personally hold that I was _not_ shrieking, I was only yelling in the same way he was) the whole of Edoras would be privy to our conversation if we weren’t careful. And that the damage was done now, anyway, so what we needed was some sort of plan to control the aftermath. Which clearly involved a hasty marriage.

Anyway, at this point the yelling took an interesting turn – and it was here that the comment I mentioned above made its appearance. Apparently he’d been assured by your uncle that you were an honest and honourable man. But it turned out “Imrahil was lying” and you “were a right randy shagger, like all the rest of the Gondy bastards” and that in general “Gondy bastards were all raving hypocrites because they pretended to be all prim and proper while all fucking each other like fucking rabbits, including the people they shouldn’t, all the time.” (There was something incomprehensible at this point about your cousin Amrothos, and Éothain, and a married woman – apparently the _same_ married woman – and much flitting between tents and a duel. I expect a full report in your next letter – would I be too far off the mark to think that somehow Lord Úron's fiancée is involved? He mentioned something about having to repair her reputation. But that’s by the by.) 

As the rant continued, it became apparent that the thing my brother was most annoyed about was that you (the supposedly upright, restrained, honourable man) had “shagged his sister every which way come Yuletide at the first opportunity” while he (whom everyone believed to be an inveterate womaniser) had “behaved himself impeccably – despite all temptations to the contrary” with your cousin. (Which does explain why your cousin was so interested in finding out more about “the Little Death”!)

Anyway, by this stage the whole thing had passed from impending blood-feud, through insane anger, then farce and finally descended into the realms of the completely ridiculous. I started to laugh, and Elfhelm joined me. 

Then Elfhelm said (in that unruffled way of his) that it was not like this sort of thing hadn’t happened before, and in fact, Éomer was probably the only person who hadn’t noticed what was going on in Minas Tirith. When Éomer glared at him, Elfhelm just said calmly that in his opinion it wasn’t really that important any way, seeing that you were a good man and had clearly intended to marry me right from the start – in fact that much was apparent from long before I had realised you felt that way (which, by the way, was an interesting piece of information from my point of view), and after all, his own first-born had been born a mere six months after the wedding. By this point he had Éomer and Hilde glaring at him (and Hilde’s glare is far scarier than my brother’s). Then Hilde (trying to change the subject) said that she would start preparations for wedding feast to follow on a few days after Théoden King’s funeral (which mention, as you can imagine, sobered all of us).

Anyway, that’s enough about Éomer’s ridiculous performance. Now for the more important thing – the rest of your letter. I am delighted that you are delighted. (But still disappointed that I did not get to tell you in person). And looking forward to seeing your face in person next month. Being new to this, I don’t know how fast babies grow (beyond that they are meant to come after 9 months, but one is allowed a certain amount of leeway for a first child). Hilde said quickening was a way off yet – but I can’t wait for the first time I can place your hand on my belly and you can feel our child kick. So far there is no bump visible, though I think my breasts are filling out the bodice of my gown rather more than they used to.

Also, the sickness is wearing off and interestingly being replaced by a desperate desire for you in my bed. I am spending a lot of time re-reading my diary and your letters (and the various notes you left for me in Minas Tirith). So hurry up, you right randy shagger, as I could do with a right randy shag at your earliest convenience. (And no, I have no intention of waiting till our wedding night. Even if the Meduseld is absolutely full to bursting when all you hypocritical Gondorians arrive en masse, and there is no privacy within its walls, I intend to find a quiet hay loft somewhere and have my dishonourable way with you while I am still slim enough to climb the ladder.

With all my love (and lust),  
Your Éowyn (and her foal)

PS Now I come to think of it, I suppose dowries aren’t entirely unlike stud fees, are they? I’d never thought of it that way before. How bloody unflattering!


	23. Chapter 23

**King Elessar to Prince Imrahil**

My dear Prince,

How glad I am that I heeded your advice and wrote, pre-emptively, to King Éomer suggesting that the Lady Éowyn and Prince Faramir be joined in marriage this Autumn.

As you will probably know, the situation has been somewhat overtaken by events, but it is good that we were seen to propose an earlier date before everything got rather out of hand (I’m being circumspect because I know that correspondence like this can sometimes be bruited abroad out of context, so I will assume you can construe the background details, or if not, ask your nephew to fill in the gaps).

Suffice it to say, I think we may have averted a diplomatic crisis.

Yours, cordially and respectfully,

Elessar

_There follows the Royal Seal_


	24. Chapter 24

**Faramir to Éowyn**

My dearest love,

How relieved I was to get your letter (as well as very amused). Éomer's anger seems to have been more comic than anything else. Though I am still a little worried he may find an excuse to challenge me to some sparring in the practice ring, and beat me black and blue. (Or at least try to – I think he may have underestimated my abilities).

First things first. I had not thought about dowries in that light but now you come to mention it, that is a most unflattering way of seeing things. I have written to Éomer to say that for my own part, I do not expect dowry from him, and that your hand, freely bestowed upon me, is all that any man could wish for. (Though of course any settlement he chooses to make upon you to ensure your financial independence is altogether a different matter, and I shall be happy to have my advocate sit down with his to discuss the way in which we may guarantee that your money, property and livestock remains yours and yours alone).

And now to more pleasant matters. I shall of course be most ready to importune you in the hay loft of your choosing at the first opportunity that presents itself. I am already imagining the many ways in which we can disport ourselves. Úron has had to take me to task several times this morning for wool-gathering. At this early stage, is your condition likely to in any way limit the repertoire of activities in which we can indulge, or may I give free rein to my imagination? I am also looking forward to a thorough investigation of the fit of your bodice, and the contents therein – an investigation to be carried out with fingers, hands, lips and tongue, for I should not wish to miss out on any detail. 

Talking of which, I found a most interesting book on the marital arts in the archives yester e’en, which suggested that the skilful application of the husband’s tongue could have a most relaxing effect upon a woman in a delicate condition. It also recommended that when your – oh, dammit, there is no delicate way of phrasing this – when your size became an issue, it would prove helpful were you to rid upon my “cock horse,” as the book not-so-euphemistically put it. Which of course I know to be one of your favourites, so this is reassuring information. And such an enthusiastic canter does afford me the chance to pay proper reverence to your pearl. Though I fear that some other favourites, such as unlacing my breeches, hoiking your skirts round your waist, then hoisting you against the wall and having you there and then, may be off the menu for a while. Which is a shame, as I think it is something we both like equally (if your glittering eyes and gasps are anything to go by – or indeed the fact that half the time, _you_ are the one unlacing my breeches) – I suspect part of the thrill lies in achieving this in a snatched moment in my study, hoping not to be interrupted. Frozen wastes of Angband – I’m now so hard thinking of this, I may have to take the situation in hand before I can finish this letter. 

(I also came upon a book on midwifery which recommended three months of abstinence after the birth at the very least to allow you to recover your strength – I shall have to enter this period very much in the spirit of “absence makes the heart – and other parts – grow fonder.”)

And of course (though I gather this is months away yet – I have made discreet enquiries of my cousin’s wife, who is a hardy campaigner of two confinements now) I am very much looking forward to the first time I can feel our baby kick. Celebeth tells me you will feel the flutters long before they are apparent beneath my hand, but that by the end of your time, the baby’s gymnastic efforts will be clear to the naked eye.

Your loving, eternally randy, devoted, besotted, and impatient,

Faramir

PS Elfhelm is right: I did fall in love with you almost immediately.

PPS And this Gondy bastard absolutely _did_ have to say “yes,” because I’m not a boneheaded idiot and you are utterly desirable and completely irresistible. And besides which, you _did_ ask, and it would have been most ungentlemanly of me to refuse a lady’s request, so eloquently put – that would truly have made me a cad.


	25. Chapter 25

**Elessar to Imrahil**

I spoke too soon.

Please contact your nephew at your soonest convenience. It seems that after all our hard work to smooth over the impending diplomatic storm, he has poked the hornet’s nest once more.

Something to do with the dowry.

I am keeping well out of it – I regard it as a family matter, not a political one.

Get him to climb down from his high horse. He needs to be on good terms with his brother-in-law to be.

**Imrahil to Elessar**

Which of them did you mean?

**Elessar to Imrahil**

Both of them. They need their bloody heads knocking together.

**Rough draft of a letter from Elessar, King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, to Éomer, King of the Riddermark (with marginal annotations in Queen Arwen’s hand)**

Éomer, my friend and shield-brother,

_[I like this start]_

I write not as king (for I view this as a private family matter, albeit one with political ramifications) but as a friend to both of you. Please do not skewer my Steward on the end of your sword: he is a good and honourable man.

_[You need a different word, my love. So much of Éomer's letter was taken up with his anger at the way Prince Faramir had supposedly “dishonoured” the Lady Éowyn that I think it best not to remind him of that word. “Decent”?]_

I know you are outraged that Prince Faramir has (as you see it) rejected your offer of a dowry for the Lady Éowyn – but do give some consideration to the fact that he loves her deeply and his position is rooted in respect for her brave and independent spirit.

_[“Please” would not go amiss, my love.]_

Dammit, Arwen, I’ve run aground completely. Help me, please!

_[You’re on your own with this one. I don’t understand mortals at all. They’ve clearly joined their fëar – yes, I know that for mortals, the act of bodily union doesn’t always lead to this, but it so patently has in this case, I really can’t see why the rest of you are making such a fuss.]_

**Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, to Éomer, King of Rohan**

Éomer, my friend and comrade in arms,

Please accept my most sincere greetings and respect. I write in a spirit of trying to find a way through the impasse you and my nephew seem to have arrived at.

You will pardon me for being brief, but I generally find a blunt yet equitable approach to be best.

Prince Faramir is offended at the idea of a dowry for the Lady Éowyn (beyond the obvious provisions to ensure her financial independence in the event of widowhood, &co) because he does not want it to seem that she is a chattel to be bought.

You are offended because you see the rejection of a dowry as an insult to the high worth and regard in which you hold your sister, and as a sleight on the standing of Rohan as a nation.

I can see the merit in both your positions.

May I propose the following compromise: that rather than making a gift to Prince Faramir in a personal capacity, you instead make a gift to the people of Gondor (or to those who are moving back to Ithilien to re-populate it) in acknowledgement of the high regard in which you hold your sister? That way the worth you place on her will clearly and publicly be seen, but it will not be a gift directly to Faramir and thus he will not (stubborn as he is) construe it as “payment for taking her.”

I hope this proposal will be suitable.

Yours, in sincere friendship and the anticipation of kinship,

Imrahil of Dol Amroth


	26. Chapter 26

**The Political Memoirs of Lord Úron**

So here we are, in Edoras at last.

The late king’s funeral is tomorrow. Today has been spent at the lists, and most entertaining it has been.

The King of Rohan challenged my Lord Steward to a “friendly practice bout.”

They proceeded, in the words of my erstwhile drill sergeant back in my soldiering days, to “hammer seven shades of shite out of each other.” The blades were blunted, of course, but my goodness. They’ll be feeling those bruises for the next few days.

I think everyone could tell they meant it, and everyone seemed to know the cause (Lady Éowyn's delicate condition seems to be the worst kept secret west of the Sea of Rhun).

Éomer is a towering man, solid, strong and skilful, and with the edge when it comes to reach. Faramir is nearly as tall, wiry, probably slightly more skilful and frighteningly fast (it is the first time I’ve seen him fight – very interesting). The result was that they were very evenly matched, which meant the fight went on a long time. 

Early on I decided it would be interesting to get close enough to the action to hear what they were saying to each other. I felt a keen pair of ears would be of use, so I invited Lord Legolas to join me in perusing a particularly fine oak round the far side of the paddock, a handful of paces from their fight. Lord Legolas caught my drift immediately, I think, and gave one of those quirky smiles of his (I think I am getting a little better at reading the facial expressions of elves).

Eventually, both completely winded, they fell back for a few moments by mutual agreement. (Agreement seems too cordial a word.)

At this point, none other than Lady Hilde, wife to Marshal Elfhelm, entered the lists. Ostensibly bearing a pair of flagons, the better to refresh the combatants. But from the martial glint in her eye, I think “entered the lists” might have been taken more literally.

Lord Legolas and I had indeed managed to get close enough to listen – and such is the clarity of Lady Hilde’s diction that even though she spoke sotto voce, even my mere mortal ears could follow the discourse.

I mentioned my erstwhile drill sergeant. Well, he in turn had a captain who was one of the best officers I have ever served with. (Lost at the fall of Osgiliath, poor bastard. But let us not dwell on that.) Lady Hilde reminded me uncannily of him – a dressing down without obscenities, profanities, repetition or hyperbole. Just a clear, concise statement of facts, delivered with withering efficiency, which can have left neither man under any illusion as to the fact that she saw both of them as preening, prancing popinjays, making complete idiots of themselves. And that furthermore, they were in danger of making the whole of Edoras see them that way.

“So, the pair of you will bow to one another, clasp forearms in a warriors’ salute, sheath your swords and leave the lists side by side, smiling and making the pretence of chatting as if there was nothing in the world behind this ridiculous quarrel. And furthermore, in pursuit of the Lady Éowyn's future happiness, it will not be a pretence. You will mean it.”

As the two men left the lists, with Lady Hilde in attendance, Lord Legolas inclined his head towards me, one of those almost-smiles upon his lips.

“Strange to say, but the Lady reminds me somewhat of my father.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am (as so many fanfic writers before me have been) eternally grateful to Darth Fingon of the Silmarillion Writers' Guild for [Twenty Two Words You Never Thought Tolkien Would Provide.](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/reference/linguistic_foolery/22_words.php)

**\--- ~o~O~o~ ---**

**Note dropped upon a lady’s lap while her brother was looking the other way**

Your breasts are everything you promised and more. I long to unlace your gown and take first one, then the other, into my greedy mouth.

**Note slipped under the door of a room in the guest wing**

Linen cupboard. Up the spiral stair from the kitchens. My skirts are hoisted ready, and my fingers are itching for a bit of unlacing to keep them busy. And the wall is firm and warm with no splinters.

**Note slipped into a basket of wool in the ladies’ solar**

I am urgently in need of a Rohirric shieldmaiden with extensive experience in riding to check the condition of both my horse and his owner. The horse’s gait is a little off, as is his master’s. I think the horse’s problem may lie in his pasterns; his master’s resides in a certain stiffness which I’m sure can be soothed away with the right attention. A vigorous ride may infuse the part in question with the needed rush of blood, allowing for its eventual relaxation (but only after the shieldmaiden has herself arrived at full satisfaction). I await you in the stable beneath the hay loft.

**Note placed in a book of poetry handed to the Prince of Ithilien**

I regret to report that my grandmother Queen Morwen’s library is sadly underused, due to the lengthy oral tradition in my country. Talking of which, perhaps you could join me there to discuss the relative merits of book learning and oral lore – perhaps we could study the famous poem “the pearl” together. I look forward to finding out what your clever tongue will make of its more detailed and finer points.

**Note slid under a door in the Royal quarters**

What a treat to come upon you alone in your solar. And even more of a treat to see you bend over your writing desk and demand I give you a good seeing to! Oh! the cheeky way you looked over your shoulder as you lifted your skirts to reveal your – well you have been studying Sindarin, so you may look this up – _hacha bain_.

**Scribbled missive on a slate, with instructions to rub it out later**

Thank you for increasing my vocabulary, and I must say you too have _hacha bain_ (I hope I have got the Tengwar formed correctly). It is particularly fine when I get to dig my fingers into them, to pull you deeper inside me. For I like it when you hit that spot within, and when you drive in so deep I feel your balls against my buttocks. For although sometimes slow and sensual is nice, sometimes hard and fast is even better. And you, my love, are so very hard. And fill me up so well. And when you take me like that with my knees pressed up against your shoulders, everything seems to fit so well that not only your pintel hits that spot within, but your body seems to hit my pearl too. Is it any wonder you left me seeing stars? I know you prefer to talk in terms of making love, but truly, this afternoon will live with me as a truly memorable, good, hard fuck!

**Note placed in a book of Sindarin grammar by the lady Éowyn's bed**

How happy I am to see that I am to marry a scholar. Though this book is perhaps a little “tame” in its vocabulary. So let me say how much I like to run my hands over your two, glorious, beautiful _tithe_. And thrust my _gwî_ deep within your warm, welcoming _huch_ , finally to spend my _gwaith_ within you. Any time you desire a good _hoith_ , I am entirely at your disposal. You need only ask. 

And since you are taking the pains to learn my language, I shall return the favour. My head is still spinning from the fact that _þū liccodest mīn pintel_ – and, what’s more, did so in that little spinney but a league from Edoras. I feel it incumbent upon me to record that your tongue is far more cunning than my own.

(It has just occurred to me that the Rohirric pintel is very similar to the Quenya name for the same, _puntl_. How strange. I never thought the languages would have common roots, but perhaps your ancestors’ ancestors had dealings with high Elves in the far north).

**Note slipped under a table at dinner**

The scholar in you is never far from the surface, my love. Distracted from the memory of my muþa around your pintel by random thoughts of etymology, indeed! I am a little disappointed I left you still able to think straight. I shall have to try harder.

Shall we declare a truce and admit that in the matter of tongues, it was a tie? And how could I resist? The way your breeches pulled tight across your arse as you swung your leg over your horse’s back to dismount, and those shiny black knee boots you will wear – the sight was just too much of a temptation. So far we have taken turn and turn about – but perhaps, with the peace and quiet afforded by the library (and the knowledge that the door has a key in its lock), we could try something I have overheard the women talk of at their weaving, and lie head to foot? Or at least in the general direction of the feet.


End file.
